


Sitting in their own sick, the scent thick

by TurtleJohn



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Emetophobia, Illness, It's angst without plot, Me projecting my own fears and emotions onto a founding father who doesnt deserve this, Sickness, There isnt a plot really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 00:40:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11116290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurtleJohn/pseuds/TurtleJohn
Summary: Hamilton is dying. He’s sick and he’s going to die just like his mother, oh god it just wont stop. He doesn’t want to die. He doesn't want to be sick. He begs to the gods to let life just slow down for a minute. His shoulders are shaking and an echoed voice calls out to him but Alexander ignores it, resting his head against the cold tiles of the bathroom in the doctor's office and giving in. The world goes dark around him and he doesn’t try to turn the light back on.





	Sitting in their own sick, the scent thick

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in tiny sections at a time and only read it through once cause of my emetophobia but I needed to write something about illness I just needed to let all my emotions out.

Hamilton is dying. He’s sick and he’s going to die just like his mother, oh god it just wont stop. He doesn’t want to die. He doesn't want to be sick. He begs to the gods to let life just slow down for a minute. His shoulders are shaking and an echoed voice calls out to him but Alexander ignores it, resting his head against the cold tiles of the bathroom in the doctor's office and giving in. The world goes dark around him and he doesn’t try to turn the light back on. 

-

Alex wakes up and regrets it as soon as his eyes open. There’s an empty bowl beside him and a wire attached to his hand, a rapid beeping is screaming out from the machine next to him matching the vigorous, panicked thumping of his heart.

The beeping doesn’t stop till a nurse, slightly older than him walks in to turn it off. He’s calm and collected but Hamilton is still breathing heavily, sure that he is in hell.  
“Calm down. It’s beeping because you cut of the flow of the fluid in your sleep.” He explains, in an attempt to soothe the man.

“What is it?” Hamilton rasps nervously. 

“Sir, you are extremely dehydrated, this drip is pumping fluids to get you back on the right track.. I don't know if you remember but you went to your GP because of stomach pains and you were sick. You had three panic attacks this morning.” The nurse looks at him as he says it, not much pity in his words, he saw this every day and is hardened to the emotions of his patients. He leaves without much fuss. 

John is the first to come and see him, Hamilton messaged him at 6pm to avoid causing ruckus and making John leave work early. Laf and Herc join join him just half an hour later. The pity hidden in their smiles juxtaposes against the lack of emotion the doctors have been showing and Alex isn’t sure how it makes him feel. Loved? Vulnerable? Weak? Nobody knows what to say so Hamilton tried to keep some type of conversation up, he complains about his IV and the shitty hospital food (Alex refused to eat it anyway but he knows the drill.) When they leave they kiss him on the cheek despite a warning from the nurse on duty that they might get sick. It’s nice for a bit of normality.

Hamilton has another panic attack in the middle of the night, his head bowed over the sick bowl that had previously lay beside his bed. His arms were shaking and he was hyper aware of every movement his body makes. His night nurse comes in to calm him down and check his blood pressure and temperature just as she had done every other hour and Hamilton goes back to sleep with an empty heart and an empty stomach, tracing his cupid's bow with his pinky finger as he tries to mimic his mother's frail, dying fingers.

For the next three days he eats nothing and refuses to drink until the third day. He had nothing left to throw up and it was burning every time he gagged. He just wanted to die. Why couldn't he die? He passed time by writing, as you would expect, but the iv was in his hand and would start beeping every 500 words he wrote. He ignored it and sooner or later an exasperated doctor would walk in and sigh at the sight before them. Even the night nurses knew to expect him to be writing when they went to check his vitals. It was the only thing that distracted him properly, he wrote letters to his mother and his friends which he would burn later. And letters to his political rivals that would be ripped to shreds as soon as he gets this fucking IV out.

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment feedback! I'm totally open to constructive criticism, also please leave suggestions on what sort of fics you want to see. I'm open to basically everything other than rape, paedophilia (although I will write rp where they have a safeword) and pet play.
> 
> Betsy x


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